Cloud Gate, Chicago
Whatever is given here
is only, instantaneously
a giving back—
a sort of lapsed mitosis
which bends the city
in the easy hammock
of its untiring appraisal.
Or a thing divorced,
polished clean of ideas—
to sit unthinking and alone
in the flat well of its
refracting
or to belatedly recall
quicksilver as a child’s
plaything
within its perfect balance,
above suspicion
above intention.
Giant bean,
fat parabola,
the belly of some future
Buddha,
and underneath this all
a navel,
as if such things could be born
beyond suffering.
Originally published in RHINO
<<Previous Next>>
Leave a Reply